


what do you mean: seek medical assistance?

by jukain



Series: the one where there's actually medical professionals [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Major Character Injury, Mild Blood, Slice of Life, Some Humor, everyone gives connor shit, fake doctoring, robodoc for robocop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 03:30:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15258453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jukain/pseuds/jukain
Summary: the only real damage is to whatever's left of his pride, honestly.





	what do you mean: seek medical assistance?

Hank coughs out a laugh as Clara slaps Connor's hand out of the way with such quickness and precision that the detective visibly stills in shock. A small amount of thirium splatters in between them, but it goes unmentioned as the women unbuttons Connor's dress shirt the rest of the way, her face set in deep concentration.

“I assure you, the damage is not so dire as to need immediate treatment,” Connor says coolly, attempting to rise. Clara harshly shoves him back to sitting position with a single sharp movement of her right arm, the other still tangled in his blue-soaked shirt. He makes a small noise in surprise, blinking hard, clearly unused to non-human strength keeping him at bay (non-Hank strength).

“The damage is _damage_ , and waiting to do something about it, like any kind of injury, will only prove to cause greater issues later. You can't _will_ your thirium supply to not drain out of sheer stubbornness. It doesn't clot like human blood and you _know_ this.” Clara explains shortly, already digging around the site of the damage, a gunshot wound from a stray bullet, an unfortunate but not fatal accident. The firearm in question would hardly put a stop to a moderately sized human, let alone an advanced model android of Connor's build. But it was gunshot damage nevertheless.

“I am aware,” Connor responds, a little lowly as he sags in defeat like a scorned child and not a man who had just been shot in the torso. Clara shifts an internal plate very delicately aside with her fingers and plucks the bullet out with a pair of tweezers, flicking it unceremoniously aside.

Connor's gaze darts over for a moment and then back, almost unnoticeable. Almost. Clara gives him a blank look, having both seen it and understood his desire. “You can pick it up later. Just stay still.”

“Christ, it's like watching a kid at the doctor.” Hank appraises with a smug look, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You gonna let him pick out a sticker after?” Connor shoots his partner a small glare, embarrassment settling heavy in his chest. He wanted to argue that although it was _possible_ Clara had worked with children in the past, and would have likely incorporated a reward system to ensure a positive ending, and thus association, to her visits-- she had been a personal care assistant for a grown man and newly specialized in androids, which had no need for such pointless human gestures.

“You'd be surprised how many adults enjoy the novelty of stickers. If not just for nostalgia purposes, I believe that the gift of something small and silly has remarkable effects on patient morale, in what would otherwise have been an upsetting experience.” Clara's expression softens as she speaks. While Connor doesn't understand her words, Hank seems to, and simply nods.

The bullet hole has been patched with a fragile sheet of sticky resin, the substance pressed carefully around the edges to seal properly, and covered by a thicker plastic patch for reinforcement. It would keep the site protected until official repairs could be made.

“I just saved you unnecessary thirium purchases. You're welcome.” Clara finishes cleaning Connor's chest and stomach off with a very stained blue cloth, and backs up once satisfied to begin putting away her messy tools.

Connor bites back an indignant huff and restores his fake human skin out of habit, ignoring the small error notices hovering in his vision (that were previously much more urgent: cut valves leaking and wire cases cracked and the like).

“Good to go?” Hanks asks him directly, approaching casually. Connor smiles up at him, a habitual gesture he had taught himself whenever he had been harmed, to soothe Hank's worry (though it never _actually_ worked). He nods, taking notice of his partner's relaxed posture, his shoulders loose, and takes the hand offered out by the man to assist him in standing.

Once on his feet, Connor grimaces at his appearance and twitches his fingers at his mid-center, uncertain, before deciding to button his very blue-splattered shirt back up. There wasn't much point to it, he could nearly hear Hank say to him despite the Lieutenant standing there watching him in silence, but Connor had difficulty tolerating even the smallest feeling of exposure. Besides, his shirt was still in one piece, not counting the bullet hole. It would not be salvageable due to the thirium spilled into it, but it would nevertheless serve to cover him for today at least... provided he wasn't shot again (he almost wanted to make a joke about it, but a fresh wave of guilt kept his mouth shut. Hank's controlled gaze at him was likely a factor in that).

No joking about getting shot with Hank around. Especially when he had just watched the bullet-- oh!

The itch to find _the bullet_ Clara had just _thrown away_ rose in the back of his mind, tugging on his impulses and making his hands twitch again. What an odd feeling. She _did_ say he could get it when she was done, despite obviously having zero idea why he would want it in the first place. Police things, Connor could guess. The real answer was far more personal in that _way_ he still didn't entirely understand, along the lines of how every dog he saw in public was new and exciting, and seeing fish on tv caused a blooming warmth of amusement and fondness, deep in his chest.

That sounded familiar. What had Clara mentioned about people collecting stickers after the doctor? Nostalgia? Novelty?

 

_> define_

_**NOSTALGIA** _

_näˈstaljə_

_noun_

_a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations._

 

Hm.

 

_> define_

_**NOVELTY** _

_ˈnävəltē/_

_noun_

_the quality of being new, original, or unusual._

 

Oh.

He wanted the bullet because it was a _novelty_ to him. Like a much darker version of getting a sticker, this was his “reward” after receiving an injury. A token of his survival and, if he wants to be poetic about it in a way only Markus would likely appreciate: _proof that he lives._

Not so much the nostalgia part, though. He and bullets had a mixed past, definitely, and he would rather keep that feeling to fish and not much else.

“You good, son?” Hank asks, concern easing into his tone. Connor realizes he's been staring at the ground, at the bullet, for a solid several seconds. He looks back and catches a glance of Clara's knowing smile but keeps his attention on Hank.

“Yes, I'm functio-- fine. I'm fine. It would be best that we return to the station now, so that we can file the proper reports about what--”

“Ugh, yeah, _I know_. Was kinda hoping to forget about that.” Hank motions to the side with his head, and without another word starts down the street, Connor shuffling to quickly meet his pace. Clara stays behind, her eyes glazed over in that specific way that tells Connor she's already on top of filing her own reports. He wasn't sure he could do that while walking.

“Got enough paperwork coming out my ass at the moment, just gotta add another 'most advanced android got his dumbass shot again' to the pile.” Hank mutters, no trace of anger in his voice, which makes Connor grin.

“It was _not_ my fault this time, Lieutenant. I want to make that clear.” Connor responds patiently and gets a bark of laugh for his trouble. He ducks his head down, still smiling warmly.

“ _'This time?'_ Do you hear yourself? Fucking christ, kid.” Hank shakes his head. “It _would_ be the one time it's an accident and not life-threatening that we'd _actually_ have a medic. Shit's just like that.”

A small chuckle rumbles in Connor's chest, and he nearly jumps as Hank reaches over and lightly jostles him by the shoulder. A friendly action, though bizarre in its physical nature. Connor has not felt any urge to _shake_ someone in the same way Hank has, so he surmises it's just another quirky human thing he won't understand for a while. He was perfectly content with that.

“I'll make sure you get your stickers for being a good boy at the doctor, though.” Said somewhat hurriedly, mumbled between them as it were a _serious_ _private matter_ and not a comment made specifically to chip away at Connor's already fairly beaten-up sense of dignity.

Hank smoothly steps back into his own space while Connor stammers, puffing up in embarrassment and heat flooding his face. From behind them, Clara cackles.

 

**Author's Note:**

> that tall child looks terrible


End file.
